


What's in a Name?

by Inkblot9



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Identity, Identity Issues, M/M, Name Changes, Names, POV First Person, Self-Acceptance, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:03:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkblot9/pseuds/Inkblot9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin's musings on his identity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Tintin was designed to be a flat character; his name does mean "nothing", after all. But he does evolve, however subtly, over the course of the comics—look at his "riding solo" type attitude in the beginning compared to his large group of friends by the end, or his seemingly boundless optimism and nose for danger giving way to skepticism, and at times, outright refusal to partake in the wild adventure that once defined him. This is a bit of my take on that.

They're funny things, names.

I call him Captain, the Captain, my Captain. I always have, though that's not his true name. Likewise, he's always called me Tintin. Most everyone does. Technically speaking, though, that's not my true name either, if I am to uphold the common belief that one's true name is the one they are born under. When I first came into the world, I was christened Augustin Remi.

I no longer remember in detail the years when that was the only name I had. My childhood was dull and grey. I had nary a friend until dear little Snowy came around, and I spent most of my time either nose-deep in a book or bent over a cheap typewriter—habits I have still yet to fully break, I'll admit.

Everything began to change when I started to write for _Le Petit Vingtième_. I was the youngest journalist they had ever seen, at thirteen when I was hired and barely fourteen on my first assignment abroad. My employers informed me that I ought to have a pseudonym to protect my identity, especially because of my age, and I was thrilled. Finally, the escape I'd yearned for, the chance to become someone beyond the Catholic Boy Scout cookie-cutter mold I had been thrust into.

I chose to call myself Tintin.

It seems easy enough, doesn't it? Augustin-tin.

There's more to it than that, though. _Tintin_ is an old Belgian French colloquialism meaning _nothing_. _Faire tintin_ : to go without. I had no real sense of self at this point. _Nothing_ was all I knew of myself, all I knew of the world, really, and all anyone had ever seemed to see in me. It was fitting, I thought.

The paradox: I only discovered myself once I became Tintin. I found I was more of _something_ when I was _nothing_. What was intended to conceal my identity became the only identity I had. I suppose I fully came to that realization when I was knighted in Klow. Then, I was Sir Tintin of the Order of the Golden Pelican. Not Sir _Augustin_ , not Sir _Remi_ , not anyone else but _nothing_ —and yet, here nothing was credited with protecting Syldavia from fascist takeover.

Now, there are likely very few people who remember Augustin Remi, and even fewer, if any, who know I am he.

The Captain does not know. I'm sure he's figured out that Tintin could not possibly be my birth name—I'm sure almost everyone I know has—but he's never questioned it. He takes me the way I am, the way he's seen me.

Anyone who's asked me my name for almost the entirety of the past decade has received the same answer. Tintin is me: more of me than my birth name ever was. My life as Tintin has shaped me, not what came before that. _Tintin_ is what they all call me, how they all recognize me.

The question I have is, isn't a name supposed to explain someone, to define them? I am not _nothing_ any longer. I have thoughts and feelings and passions, hopes and fears and emotions. I know who I am now: I am human. I have wonderful friends who have become my family, a wonderful house that has become my home, and wonderful adventures that have become my life.

No, I am not nothing. The Captain tells me often I'm his _everything_ , but he does not see the drastic irony there.

I am a writer by trade. I understand words. They fascinate me. I also know that the deepest meanings are usually lying underneath the literal ones, between the lines. Perhaps the same goes for names: they call me Tintin, though I'm more than nothing, and they call me a reporter when I've been more than that: a detective, a traveler, a fighter, a diplomat, a soldier, a radio-operator, an astronaut, a dreamer, a telepath, a friend, a lover, and plenty else. They still call me a boy, too, though I'd legally be an adult anywhere in the world now.

If a name is simply what people call you, then I and everyone else have a plethora of them. How, then, is it possible to answer the seemingly mundane question _"What's your name?"_ Should I respond with my birth name, Augustin Remi? My pen name, Tintin? My title in Syldavia, Sir Tintin? My title in San Theodoros, Colonel Tintin? My job, Tintin the reporter for _Le Petit Vingtième_? If I wanted to be completely precise, I'd have to list all of that and then some—such as when I enlisted in an Arabian tribe's military as _Corporal Ali-Bhai_ —but that would be quite a mouthful, and I'm sure that's not what anyone who would ask that question would be wanting to hear.

Maybe a name is simply what you call _yourself_ , but I'm not certain what even that would be anymore. I've been Tintin for ten years, and I can no longer imagine being anyone else. However, the reasons I chose that moniker no longer apply.

Maybe a name doesn't reflect yourself as much as it reflects your family. After all, it's them who choose it, at least in the beginning. That's reasonable enough: a newborn knows no words and cannot pick a name for themselves. Names often change through adoption and marriage and that sort of thing, as well.

My surname came from my father, my Christian name from my mother. My familiar name came from myself, as for a time _I_ was all I had. But now, my family is here at Marlinspike. I never expected I'd someday fall in love, but I've found my other half in the Captain, and he's helped me find a stronger sense of identity than I've ever had before. If I kept Tintin as my only name, it'd be because that's what he calls me; that's the me he knows. Similarly, I've rarely called him by his birth name: never just _Haddock_ , and certainly never just _Archibald_ —I know he hates that name anyway. Though it's been some time since he's commanded a vessel, he'll always be the Captain to me.

Maybe names aren't meant to be literal. Maybe they don't really matter all that much. I tend to overthink things, and attempt to apply logic where there is none.

If a stranger asked me my name right now, what would my answer be? To be honest, I'd be inclined to say, "I'm Augustin Remi-Haddock, but at home they call me Tintin…the boy reporter."


End file.
